Medusa

back to NUMA.

“My head is spinning,” Caitlin Lyons said. “What just happened?”

“The Pyramid Triad has developed an influenza virus that they want to use to bring down the Chinese government,” Austin said. “They hijacked the lab working on a vaccine for the virus, and, once the Triad topples the government, Pyramid will market the antiviral around the world and make billions.”

“Hundreds of thousands of people could die before that happens,” she said.

“Do you think anyone at Pyramid gives a damn?” he asked.

“Not from what I’ve seen. Where do we start?”

“Get the Asian Crime Unit to crack down on the Ghost Devils. While you handle this end, Joe and I will try to find the lab.”

“What should I do about Charlie Yoo?”

“Use him, then lose him.”

“I like that,” she said with an evil smile on her face.

Lyons dropped them off at the NUMA tower. Austin and Zavala headed their separate ways home to pick up their bags and said they would hook up again at the airport.

Austin checked his cell phone while driving home. He had left it in the car when he went to investigate the cookie factory. He listened to the voice mail from Phelps, saying he was an FBI agent. Yoo had told the truth about one thing.

Austin clicked the phone off and nailed the accelerator.

Time, as always, had become the enemy.

CHAPTER 30

AT THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, THE NAVY BLUE SUV pulled up to a hangar at Reagan National Airport and parked next to a sleek Cessna Citation X jet that had NUMA emblazoned in black on its turquoise fuselage. Austin and Casey emerged from the SUV’s backseat, and the lieutenant handed over an eleven-by-sixteen-inch plastic pouch.

“This packet contains the nuts-and-bolts details of the mission we talked about on the drive to the airport,” Casey said. “Good luck, Kurt. And keep your eyes peeled for sharks.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Austin said as they shook hands. “But I’ll take a dorsal-finned man-eater any day over the schools of sharp-toothed politicians and government bureaucrats that swarm the Potomac waters.”

Casey gave him a knowing smile.

“I’ll remember to keep my shark repellant handy, Kurt.”

“I was thinking another type of repellant might be more appropriate for Washington, but good luck to you in any case.”

Austin retrieved his duffel from the SUV and handed it to a baggage handler who loaded it into the jet’s cargo hold. Tucking the pouch under his arm, he stepped up to the open door and paused there. Headlights were bearing down on the Citation and salsa music blared from a car sound system as Zavala’s red Corvette raced across the tarmac with its top down.

The car slammed to a stop next to the hangar, and Zavala waved. Austin shook his head. As if to balance out his soft-spoken manner, Zavala never simply arrived at a destination, he made a grand entrance. Austin waved back, then stepped into the jet’s plush cabin and dropped the pouch on a coffee table. While Austin went to talk to the pilot and copilot, Zavala raised his convertible’s top, grabbed his duffel, tossed it to the handler, and bolted aboard. As he stepped into the cabin, Austin was coming back from the cockpit.

“We’re right on schedule,” he informed Zavala.

The cabin seating was an arrangement of beige leather chairs and a sofa that all could be made into beds. Zavala stretched out in one of the comfortably padded chairs, yawned, and said, “Any idea where we’re going?”

Austin plunked himself down on the sofa and picked the pouch up off the table. He held it up so Zavala could read the TOP SECRET label affixed to the outside.

“Our marching orders,” he announced.

He broke the seal with his thumbnail and extracted the thick wad of paper from inside. He unfolded the first page, which was covered with diagrams, and then passed it over to Zavala. Zavala glanced at the diagrams, then read the words printed in large-block type:

U.S. NAVY UNDERSEA HABITAT AND OBSERVATORY

Zavala looked up from the diagrams.

“These are the blueprints for Davy Jones’s Locker,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement.

Austin nodded.

With loving care, Zavala spread the diagrams out on the table. He studied every detail of the spheres and connecting passageways the way some men might savor a naughty pinup. As the brilliant designer of dozens of NUMA submersibles, he paid particular attention to the plans for the cargo shuttle and the lab’s specimen-collection submersibles. After a few minutes, he passed judgment from the point of view of a marine engineer who had struggled many times with the thorny challenges posed by currents, depth, pressure, and salt water.

“Brilliant,” Zavala said with unabashed admiration. He crinkled his brow. “It’s hard to believe anything this size could vanish.”

“The lab’s design may have made the hijacking possible,” Austin said. “As you can see, it was designed as a mobile undersea observatory. Lieutenant Casey said that the Navy built the components on land, towed them out to sea on specially designed barges, then assembled the components and lowered the lab into place. They built in flotation capability, and the spheres and connectors were reinforced structurally so the lab could be moved without breaking apart. The lab also had a stabilization system to keep it level during movement.”

Zavala took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and placed it on the diagrams.

“Imagine this pen is a submarine or large submersible,” he said. “They hook onto the lab, get it pumped up to neutral buoyancy, and tow it away.”

“Great minds think alike,” Austin said. “The Russian government has been trying to sell off its fleet of Typhoons for use as cargo carriers in the Arctic. Maybe they found a buyer.”

“That solves only part of the mystery,” Zavala said. “If this was such a big secret, how did the hijackers know Davy Jones’s Locker existed and where it was located?”

“The lab’s security was outsourced to a private contractor,” Austin said, “and that may have been the weak point. The Navy talked to the support-ship survivors. Lieutenant Casey said the crew got a request from their security company to shuttle a representative down to the lab a short while before the attack. They said he was a friendly guy with a Southern accent. Phelps, of course.

“Phelps admitted he hijacked the lab,” Austin continued. “What he didn’t say was that the company rep who authorized his visit was killed in a car crash. My guess is, he was coerced into getting Phelps an ID, then was eliminated.”

“A convenient coincidence,” Zavala said. “What was the lab’s last position?”

Austin dug a map out of the pouch and spread it on the coffee table. An area in the Pacific Ocean had been circled in black grease pencil near the island of Pohnpei in Micronesia.

Zavala sat back and laced his hands behind his head.

“Gee, that narrows it down,” he said with a sour expression on his face. “It could take months to find the lab.”

“Sandecker says we have to wrap it up in less than seventy-two hours,” Austin said.

“I’m surprised the old sea dog didn’t ask us to solve the problem of global hunger and the energy crisis in our spare time.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Austin said. “He’ll want us to clean up the oceans on our coffee break.”

The sound of approaching jet engines broke the early-morning stillness. Austin got up and went to the door. A NUMA jet was taxiing up to the hangar. The engines went silent, and three figures emerged and walked across the